


Clint Rogers' Very First Hanukkah

by Mhalachai



Series: Hands of Clay [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-02-13 19:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: It's December, 2008, and Steve Rogers is taking his baby son Clint to New Jersey for the baby's very first Hanukkah with Steve's adoptive family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Referring slightly to the [outtake in which Abraham starts to explore his own history, once he and Marta defect to America](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2585939/chapters/15021985#18).
> 
> Set pre-series for Hands of Clay - Bucky has been out of Steve's life for over 14 years, and Steve is finding his way in life.
> 
> This installment does reference some other things that are mentioned _very briefly_ in Hands of Clay, as Steve's backstory, so yeah bear with me.

* * *

_the day before Hanukkah, 2008_

Steve sat in the train seat, staring out the window at the passing scenery with a sixteen-pound baby strapped to his chest, and wondered if he was making a big mistake.

He was taking Clint back home to Abraham's house, to meet his sisters and to celebrate Clint's first Hanukkah. He was also taking his infant son on his first trip away from home, and away from his mother.

What if this was all a disaster?

Clint stirred in his sleep, his little hand curling into a loose fist. Automatically, Steve smoothed the hair over Clint's forehead, watching as Clint smacked his lips together before settling back into his nap.

 _One minute at a time,_ Steve told himself. It was Sharon's saying, something she repeated to herself when Clint would let loose with a scream-fest, or he refused to sleep, or during the occasional yet inevitable diaper blow-out. _One minute at a time._

Once he was sure that Clint was fully asleep again, Steve worked his Blackberry out of his pocket to check his email. No one at the Maria Stark Foundation had batted an eyelash when Steve said he was taking time off to go visit his dad for Hanukkah, but with the pre-holiday charity campaign the Foundation ran every year, Steve still felt guilty at being away in the days before the Christmas closure.

As it was Saturday, no disasters had arrived in his inbox in the last forty-five minutes, so Steve put his phone away. The train was passing a familiar park in Woodbridge, and soon they would be arriving at the station in Edison.

"We'll be there soon," Steve murmured to his sleeping son. "And your grandpa will pick us up and take us home. Then tomorrow is Hanukkah, and we'll see Aunt Kim and Aunt Sally and your cousin Peter."

For an instant, Steve wondered if Sally's mysterious husband was going to show up this year, but he let the thought pass. He wasn't all that close to Sally, who had left for college the year after Steve came to live with the Erskines, and he didn't really feel comfortable in poking at her personal life.

Besides, Kim usually got under Sally's skin enough for everyone.

Clint's eyelids flickered as the train slowed for the stop at Metuchen. He blinked sleepily up at Steve, his cornflower blue eyes unfocused, his round cheeks flushed with sleep.

"Hey there, buddy," Steve whispered, feeling his heart swell with so much emotion and love, he could barely sit still. "We're almost there."

Clint closed his eyes and pressed his face against Steve's chest. Steve patted Clint's back with one hand while he dug into his jacket pocket for Clint's pacifier with the other. As he did so, he spotted a young woman across the aisle looking at them; rather, she was looking at Clint.

Steve smiled at her, and she smiled back. "He's really well-behaved," the young woman said in way of greeting.

Steve, who had never had the term _well-behaved_ thrown at anything in his life, gave a rolling shrug. "He's okay," Steve said as he finally located the pacifier. And none too soon, for Clint was beginning his customary post-nap wiggle-and-stretch. Soon, he'd open his mouth and let everyone in the train car know he was awake. "He's a real good sleeper."

As if on cue, Clint lifted his head from where he'd been rubbing mucus and drool on Steve's shirt, opening his mouth to let ring the battle cry of his people. Steve popped the pacifier into the baby's mouth. Clint's eyes widened, and for a moment, Steve could see his little baby brain trying to decide if he wanted to scream or to suck.

As usual with Clint Francis Barton Carter Rogers, age four months and two weeks, the urge to suck won out. The baby let his cheek fall back to Steve's chest as he suckled on the pacifier with single-minded intensity.

"Were you spending a day in the city?" the young woman asked.

Steve settled back into his chair so Clint could get a good view of the train car. "Nah, we're from Brooklyn. We're going home to visit my dad for a few days."

His dad. His _dad._ Even now, at twenty-six, fourteen years after Abraham Erskine had adopted tiny skinny Steve Rogers, it felt a little weird to say those words.

But it was true.

The young woman was smiling, her eyes once again on Clint, who was grabbing at Steve's shirt and tugging for all he was worth. "It's nice to go home, sometimes," she said wistfully.

The train was beginning to slow down again, with an announcement for the station in Edison. Steve made sure that the baby carrier was secure around Clint, then stood to pull his bags down from the overhead racks. At noon on the Saturday before both Hanukkah and Christmas, the train was packed, and it was still a struggle to get his bags and not crush the baby in the process. With a nod of farewell to the young woman, Steve headed out.

Clint squirmed as Steve shuffled out of the train car. When they stepped out into the light and the noise, Clint opened his mouth and let out a scream of infant displeasure.

The unfortunate side-effect of a four-month-old baby opening his mouth to cry was that anything in that mouth would fall out. With his hands full, Steve could only watch in resignation as Clint's pacifier fell to the ground, bounced once, then toppled between the train and the yellow warning tiles of the platform.

At least the damned things were cheap.

With Clint working himself up into an rage, Steve had to make a split-second decision. He could put down his bags and try to sooth the baby, or he could hustle them out to the parking lot in the hopes that Abraham was there.

The number of people staring at them was enough to make Steve's decision for him. He gritted his teeth as he headed through the crowd, breaking into a jog once he was free of the mass. Clint's wails grew in volume, piercing into Steve's brain. He was a terrible father, Steve thought as he stumbled down the steps, looking around in vain for Abraham. Sharon would have known what to do with Clint, but Sharon was stuck at work all week. All Clint had was Steve.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay." Steve made his way over to one of the benches in the waiting area to put down his stuff. "I'll get you another soother, it's okay."

Clint's vocal misery did not abate. He clenched his hands and kicked his feet as he cried.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asked, frantically digging in his backpack for a pacifier. "I fed you just before we left Penn Station, how can you be hungry?"

"Steven?"

Steve jerked his head up to see Abraham walking across the parking lot, bundled up against the cold. "Oh thank God," he said under his breath. Then, louder, "Hey, Dad."

Abraham Erskine hurried over to the bench. "Has Clint been crying the whole time?" he asked, patting Steve's back in commiseration before trying to catch one of Clint's hands.

"No, just after we got off the train." Finally, Steve located a pacifier underneath Clint's stuffed dog toy. "I don't think he's hungry."

Steve attempted to shove the pacifier into Clint mouth, but after an exploratory suck, the baby spat the thing out. Steve, who had been expecting this, caught the pacifier before it flew too far.

"Maybe he is wet." Abraham rummaged in Steve's backpack, emerging with the cord Sharon used to secure Clint's pacifiers to his shirt. "We can be home in fifteen minutes."

"He's not making wet-diaper face," Steve said, letting Abraham take the pacifier from him. "If this is because he's missing his mom, it's going to be a long trip."

Abraham tsked at him as he clipped the cord to the pacifier, then Clint's shirt. "Clint has been away from his mother for longer, you tell me the hours she works." He turned back to the backpack, and plucked out the floppy dog. "We will try something that always worked with Kimberly."

Holding the dog so he could move its head, Abraham presented the toy to Clint. The bay's cries tapered off almost immediately as he reached for the dog.

"Oh, hello," Abraham said, making the dog dance for a moment. "Look at you, growing so much." With Clint holding onto the dog's paw with a clenched fist, Abraham pushed the rest of the toy into the baby carrier beside Clint. As soon as Abraham released the toy, Clint pressed his face against the dog's fur and hiccupped gently.

Steve let out a breath. "You're a genius," he said to Abraham.

"No, I am a man with much experience with cranky children," Abraham corrected. "Now, give your father a hug."

Steve managed the hug without squishing Clint too much. "How are you?" he asked as they separated. "Did you get that problem with the water heater fixed?"

"Yes, all is well." Abraham ran his hand over Clint's head. The baby turned his head and sniffled. "Come, we will go home and this _bärchen_  can relax."

"Sounds good." Steve grabbed his sports bag, while Abraham took the backpack. "Thanks for coming to pick us up."

Abraham gave Steve a look. "Steven, it is a forty-five minute bus ride from this station and the weather is terrible."

"I still appreciate it." Steve patted Clint's bum. "Don't we?"

Clint let out a squeak.

Steve grinned. "See?"

Abraham shook his head. "I see you only four weeks ago, and look how much he has grown."

"He's babbling all the time now," Steve said, happy as always to talk about his favourite subject. "And he can roll over on his own, so that makes changing his diaper an adventure. He nearly did a header to the ground last week when Sharon was changing him at the coffee shop."

"Ah, yes, Sharon." Abraham's voice was mild. "How is she, at being away from Clint for a few days?"

"She's fine." They had reached Abraham's car, and Steve went around back to put his things in the trunk. "Work's riding her pretty hard, but she's handling it." He closed the trunk. "She had to go out of town a few times overnight in the last couple of weeks. I think it was harder on her and me than it was on Clint."

Abraham opened the car's back door for Steve. "Of course Clint did well," he said as he headed to the driver's side. "He has you."

Steve turned his attention to his son, who was busy babbling at his floppy dog. "Is that true?" he asked as he loosened the carrier strap. "You okay hanging around with your old man?"

Clint gummed at his hand.

It took Steve a few minutes to settle Clint into the car seat, which Abraham had first bought when Sally first brought her son Peter out for a visit, then he closed the door and jogged around to the other side to get in behind Abraham. "We're good," Steve said, and Abraham started the engine.

On the drive to Abraham's house, through the grey and brown streets of Edison, Steve and Abraham got caught up on the small happenings in their lives since they had last spoken a few days before. Steve told Abraham about some recent development at work, and Abraham shared how things had been going at the medical clinic where he worked part-time. Throughout the drive, Clint kicked his feet and made burbling noises until he started to gum at his hand again, at which time Steve thought it prudent to attempt a reintroduction of the soother. The speed at which Clint took to the thing told Steve that his son was probably getting hungry again.

As Abraham slowed for a right turn, Steve's phone beeped. He pulled it out to see a new message from Sharon. _Get off the train ok?_

Steve tapped out a quick reply. _Yeah Clint slept the whole way._ After a hesitation, he added, _he misses you._

_I miss him too. Give him lots of kisses from me._

Steve sent back a smiley face, then pocketed his phone. "Your mommy says hi," he told Clint. "She misses you."

Clint made a fist with his hand and waved it at his father.

As Abraham accelerated into a turn, his phone rang. "Ach, Steven, can you take the call?"

"Sure." Steve unbuckled his seatbelt to reach over into the front seat for the phone. He thumbed the call button, and said, "Hello?"

"Oh. Hi. I guess that's why Dad's not answering at home."

"Hey, Kim." Steve settled back in his seat. "Dad just picked me and Clint up at the station. He's fighting holiday-shopping traffic."

"Ask her when her plane gets in tomorrow!" Abraham called over his shoulder.

"Dad wants to know when you're going to be here," Steve said. "Did you wait last minute to book a flight again?"

"Not really," said Kim evasively. "When are you guys gonna get home? I need Dad to do something for me."

Steve looked out the window. "Like, three minutes? What do you need?"

"What is it?" Abraham asked.

"Kim says she needs you to do something."

"It can wait until you get home," Kim put in.

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you when you get home."

"Why don't you tell me now?"

"Because you can't do anything about it now."

"Yeah, but this way I can get ready to do something about it."

Kim let out an exasperated sigh that was audible over the New Jersey cell tower traffic. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"It has been mentioned on occasion."

"Ugh. Call me when you get home." Kim ended the call.

As Steve put down the phone, Abraham turned the car onto their street. The Erskine house was at the far end of the cul-de-sac, with the front door shielded from view of the road by bushes, so it wasn't until Abraham was pulling into the driveway that they spotted the suitcases stacked by the door.

"What is this?" Abraham asked, pulling the car to a stop with a jerk. He yanked on the parking brake and tuned off the engine. "Steven, do you know what this is?"

"Kim sent her luggage by mail?" Steve guessed as he began to unbuckle Clint.

Then someone popped up from beside the suitcases, waving. It was Kimberly.

"What is this?" Abraham demanded, getting out of the car. Steve, who had by this time freed his son from the trappings of road safety, hurried after him. "My Kimberly, oh, my Kimberly, you are early!"

Kim, who was two years older and a good foot shorter than Steve, bounced down the steps to give her father a hug. "Hi, Dad!" she exclaimed. "Surprise! I forgot my keys."

"It is indeed a surprise." Abraham pulled back to pat his daughter's cheek. "It has been months! And what is this hair?"

Kim shook her head, sending the short brown spikes quivering. "Come on, Dad, I've had long hair forever. I needed a change."

"It certainly is a change." Abraham hugged Kim again. "But we are standing outside! In, in!"

"You forget your keys?" Steve asked as Abraham turned to unlock the front door.

"Long story," Kim muttered. "Let me see the baby."

"Take him, I gotta get my stuff." Steve gently hefted Clint over to Kim. They regarded each other with grave suspicion. "Go inside, it's cold out here."

"You sound like Dad," Kim informed Steve as she carried the baby into the house. "It's a good thing your dad's cute, kid, because he's an old _großvater_."

"That's mister _großvater_ to you!" Steve called after her.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Kim shouted back.

"Ah," came Abraham's voice from far away. "Yes, the screaming of my children, this I did not miss."

Steve jogged to the car, retrieved all his belongings, then closed the doors and headed into the house.

As usual, Abraham kept the place a few degrees warmer than Steve was used to. Pausing in the hallway, Steve kicked off his boots, put his winter jacket on a hook, then lifted his bags and headed into the kitchen.

He paused in the doorway to take in a deep breath, letting much of the stress of the day's travel fall away. He loved Abraham's house, from the seventies décor, to the clutter of books and records and magazines, but he had always loved the kitchen the best. The room smelled of cinnamon and coffee, with large windows looking out onto the back yard. Steve had spent a lot of his teenage years in this room, doing his homework, cooking meals with Kim, reading books, and most of all, talking.

He'd grown up here, and he loved coming back.

Abraham was moving around, filling the kettle with water, while Kim had seated Clint on the table for what looked like a staring contest. Steve dumped his bags on a chair. "What're you doing?"

Kim didn't break eye contact with Clint. "I'm trying to figure out if this kid looks more like you or his mom."

"He's got my eyes." Steve went over to wash his hands. "And Sharon's nose."

"Thank god for that."

"Hey."

"I can't tell whose eyebrows he's got," Kim went on. "Come on, kid, frown for me. Show me if you've got your dad's epic brows of displeasure." She made a face at Clint, who cackled.

"Dad," Steve said, turning to Abraham. "You hear what she's saying about me?"

Abraham shook his head as he pulled the coffee out of the cupboard. "Only this morning, I say to myself, it is too quiet in this house," he lamented. "Now, I find myself wishing for stillness."

Kim stopped pulling faces at Clint. "Come on, Dad, you think this is bad, wait until Sally gets here with the little terror."

"Do not call your nephew that," Abraham admonished. "Peter is a little boy, not a terror."

"Sally calls him that, not me." Kim took her hands off Clint experimentally, then grabbed him again as he wobbled. "Steve, your kid is leaking."

Steve glanced over. "It's just drool. Wipe it up or something."

Making a face, Kim took hold of Clint's arm so she could use his sleeve to wipe spittle off his chin.

"Not what I meant."

Kim rolled her eyes. "Exact instructions were unclear."

"You sound like a robot." Steve pulled a clean bottle out of his bag, then a can of formula.

"I work with engineers, of course I sound like a robot." Kim offered Clint his pacifier, which he refused. "Okay, enough small talk, someone come take this baby."

Abraham moved over to pick up Clint, and Kim vanished down the hall with alacrity. Steve turned to Clint's bottle. "Ah, quiet," Abraham said with a small laugh. "You've put Clint on formula?"

"Yeah." Steve finished pouring the liquid into the bottle. "With Sharon's schedule at work, she couldn't keep up with pumping, and her hours are getting longer, too. I think she's feeling guilty about it, so we're buying the expensive formula until Clint's ready to go on solids." He screwed the lid on the bottle.

Abraham patted Clint's belly. "He looks like a healthy baby."

"He is. The doc says he's in the ninety-fifth percentile for height, and his weight is tracking well." Steve shook the bottle out of habit. "He said to keep doing what we're doing, so that's the plan."

"Clint is a very happy baby," Abraham agreed. "With a very good father."

Steve couldn't stop the smile from crossing his face. "Thanks, that means a lot."

Abraham smiled back. "Now, my boy, you take your little one," and he pushed Clint back into Steve's arms. "And I will make the coffee."

By the time Kim made it back into the kitchen, Clint was chugging away at his bottle. "Now," Abraham said as Kim collapsed into her customary chair by the wall telephone. "You will tell to us why you appear on my doorstep a day early and without your keys, yes?"

"You know I was in Atlanta on business last week," Kim said, reaching for a coffee mug in the centre of the table. "I was just sick of flying and thought about heading back to Seattle for a couple of days, then back to Newark, made me weep. Actual tears _._ "

Steve cracked a smile down at Clint at the last words; Kim had always been the dramatic one in the family. Clint was too busy demolishing his lunch to pay attention to any expressions on his father's face.

"So I cancelled my flight home, stayed in Atlanta a little longer, then caught a flight this morning." She held out her mug for Abraham to fill it. "I caught a cab home, but Dad wasn't here. The end."

"As you say," Abraham said. Steve could tell from the note in Abraham's voice that he didn't think that was all there was to the story; Steve didn't think so either. But neither of them had ever had any luck in prying something out of Kim before she was ready to share. "Well, my dear, I am so glad to see you, you know that."

"Thanks, Dad." Kim smiled, a brilliant expression that lit up her whole face. Steve had seen pictures of Marta, Abraham's wife, who had died in a car accident before Steve was adopted. He knew that Kim took more after Abraham in appearance, but when Kim smiled, she looked so much like those old photographs of Marta.

Steve wondered what Clint would look like, when he grew up.

"The layover wasn't all that bad," Kim went on. "I got a lot of work done. Saw some sights."

Steve couldn't help himself. "Some sights," he echoed.

Kim kicked him under the table. "You're just jealous because you didn't get a guided tour of the World of Coca-Cola."

Steven wrinkled his nose. "You hate Coke."

"This was a cultural _experience_ , Steve."

Before the argument could devolve back along familiar lines, Clint pushed his bottle away. Steve set the bottle on the table and lifted his son up to his shoulder to begin the burping process. "So you're here a day early, what are you going to do?" he asked as he patted Clint's back.

Kim shrugged. "Help out with getting ready for Hanukkah, the usual. What about you?"

"Same. This way Clint gets to spend more time with his grandfather."

"That is so sweet." Kim reached forward to put her hand on Steve's arm. Steve, who had spent more than half his life on the receiving end of Kim's zingers, waited. "Especially if you get extra time off work."

Clint punctuated the line by letting out a loud belch. Abraham sighed. "I do have a list of the things I need to do before tomorrow," he said mildly. "Let me get it."

"Hang onto that for a minute," Steve said, who had caught a whiff of an unpleasant yet familiar odor. "I gotta go change this little monkey."

Kim made a face.

"Like you never pooped your drawers when you were his age," Steve said, standing up.

"I came out of the womb potty trained," Kim shot back.

The noise that came from Abraham's direction sounded suspiciously like a snort.

Grabbing his backpack, Steve hustled to the upstairs bathroom, which had a wider countertop. Once there, he managed to pull out the portable change pad and get it mostly flat on the counter before laying Clint down. The baby kicked his legs unconcernedly as Steve pulled off his little sweatpants.

"You know," Steve said conversationally. "That lady on the train said you were well-behaved, but I think you're just chill. You are one cool baby, Clint Rogers, you know that? One hundred percent certified organic cucumber."

Clint grabbed at his feet as Steve unsnapped his onesie.

"You are the best little baby I ever did meet." Steve moved the onesie out of the way, then dove into the bag for a clean diaper and the wipes. "I don't know how I got so lucky."

He paused, looking down at his son. Steve had never expected to be a father so early in his life; when Sharon had come to him to tell him that she was pregnant, he had been terrified. But they had both agreed that they would do everything to make it work, to give Clint the best home they could. It was hard work, but it was worth it.

"You're worth it," Steve said quietly to Clint, poking him in the belly. Clint's mouth turned up into a laugh. "You're the best thing in my whole life, buddy."

Clint laughed again.

"Now, this weekend, you get to meet all the other best things in my life," Steve went on. "We're going to celebrate a great Hanukkah with your Grandpa Abraham, and Aunt Kim, and your Aunt Sally, as a family. Abraham and Kim and Sally, they're Jewish, and they celebrate Hanukkah every year."

Clint stuck out his tongue.

"And Sally decided long ago, after her mother died, she'd celebrate Hanukkah but she would also put up a Christmas tree too because that's what Marta always did, and it makes her feel close to her mom." Steve reached for the wipes. "And you and me, we're here because this is our family, and me finding a family after all those years in foster care, well, that's my miracle."

Clint reached his hand up to Steve, who took it with his fingers.  

"So here we are," Steve finished. "You and me and our family. How does that sound?"

Clint crowed, and kicked his feet again. Steve took the hint, and went back to changing the diaper. Thankfully, Clint hadn't had any digestive problems with the switch to formula, so the diaper wasn't too much of a disaster.

"You know," Steve said as he wiped Clint's butt. "If anyone had told me a year and a half ago that I'd be cleaning up baby poop on the regular, I'd have said you were out of your mind." Clint let loose with a tiny fart. "But now look at me. Nothing fazes me. I am a parenting pro."

And then, because fate was a capricious god, Clint pooped all over the change pad.

Steve let out a sigh. Clint stared up at him, eyes wide and blue and completely unconcerned.

 _One minute at a time,_ Steve said to himself. _Just one minute at a time_.

He put Clint in the tub to wash him off, then dried him off and got him into a clean diaper before any more defecatory disasters struck. Then, for lack of any better place to put the baby, Steve left him on the bath rug as he cleaned up the poop parade.

Clint, who was having a marvelous time on the ground, had almost managed to roll onto his stomach when there came a knock at the door. "You guys okay?" Kim called.

"Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary." Steve nudged Clint onto his back again, then went to wash his hands.

"Need any help?"

"No. Wait, yeah, hang on."

Steve dried his hands, picked up Clint mid-roll, and opened the door. Kim looked him up and down. "You look like you lost a fight," she observed.

"I feel like it." He handed Clint over to Kim. "I have to do a load of laundry. Keep him busy?"

Kim looked at Clint. Clint let out a high-pitched _meep_ and tried to wiggle his way to freedom. "If he gets all poopy, I'm bringing him back to you," she said as she turned towards the stairs. "I get paid to deal with metaphorical shit, not the real stuff."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve muttered. He turned his attention back onto the bathroom. Time to clean up.

By the time Steve had the bathroom poop-free, and the washing machine running on hot, Kim had given Clint the guided tour of the Erskine house and was in the living room with Abraham. Steve staggered into the living room and collapsed onto the floor next to Clint, who was enjoying some tummy time.

"You look like you lost another round," Kim said.

Steve closed his eyes. "I love in-suite laundry," he muttered.

"Kimberly says she will go do the shopping," Abraham said. "And I will vacuum. You should go with your sister, Steven, and take the baby. It will do him good to see new things."

Steve didn't move. He was so tired.

Something nudged his leg. "Come on, number-one dad, on your feet." He opened his eyes to see Kim bending over him.

"Where are you going?" Steve asked, rolling onto his side. Clint reached out for him with grabby hands, grinning the whole time.

"Patel's, Stop-and-Shop, who knows, just get up."

"Ugh." Steve sat up. "Clint, your Aunt Kim wants to go shopping. You want to come with us?"

Clint burbled.

"Sounds like a yes."

"Come on." Kim bounced on her toes. "I'm driving."

Steve picked Clint up, slung him over one shoulder, and got to his feet. "I'll get the carrier, meet you at the door."

Kim went over to Abraham, kissed him on the cheek, then sped out of the room. Abraham and Steve looked at each other.

"No need to hurry back," Abraham said, rising slowly to his feet. "Go, enjoy spending time together. I see both of you more often than you see each other."

Steve transferred Clint to his left forearm. "If you need anything, call me, okay?"

"I will." Abraham reached for Clint. "Come, _bärchen_ , let your father get ready to go. I will put you in a hat so you will not be cold."

Steve went to find an old towel to double as a change pad in case Clint had any more diaper incidents while they were out, shoved it into his backpack-slash-diaper bag, then returned to find that Kim had hauled out the old mittens and was putting them on Clint's head as make-shift hats as Abraham looked on with amusement.

"That's ridiculous," Steve said as he put on the baby carrier.

"That's why I'm taking pictures." Kim tugged one of Abraham's leather driving gloves onto Clint's head. "Playing dress-up with babies is part of the whole reason of having kids, Steve."

Clint looked around, grabbing at the air around his head in what looked like infant concern.

"He looks like a goth rooster," Steve said.

"Have you got a better idea?"

Abraham picked up the baby hat from where Steve had dropped it on the bench. "Try this," he said mildly.

"Fine." Kim pulled the hat onto Clint's head. "Boring."

"At least the baby will not get frostbite."

"Dad, it's thirty-eight degrees, no one's going to get frostbite."

"Not anymore," Abraham agreed. "Where is the boy's jacket?"

The three of them managed to get Clint into his winter wear, and eventually Kim and Steve left the house, Clint on Steve's arm, as Abraham waved them away.

Kim climbed into the driver's seat as Steve got into the back. "Where you want to go first?" Kim asked as she moved the seat all the way up. "I would kill someone for a samosa right about now."

"Then we're going to Patel's." Steve buckled Clint in. "You've only been away from Seattle for a couple of weeks, you're in withdrawal already?"

Kim had the car in gear and was backing down the driveway. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find kosher food in Atlanta? I have been eating salads and cheese pizza for a week. I need some flavour in my life."

Steve thought about all he knew of southern cuisine. He'd never been further south than Washington, DC. "What about fried chicken?"

"Marinated in buttermilk."

"Oh." Steve absently tapped Clint's tummy, making the boy reach for his fingers. "I guess barbeque is out."

"Everything was pork. Everything. Even the coleslaw was pork."

Steve settled back in his seat. "What do you think, Clint?" he asked. "Feel up for your very first samosa?"

Clint babbled excited agreement.

Kim just shook her head.

They parked outside the Indian supermarket just over the township line in Iselin, Steve put Clint into the carrier, and inside they went.

They had done this a lot when they were growing up; grocery shopping together while Abraham worked long hours. Kim would push the cart and Steve would lift things down off the shelves, and around it all, they would talk. Things were a little different now; Clint's bubbling chatter wove through the conversation, and Kim's words were more brittle at twenty-eight than they had been at sixteen, but it still felt like _them_.

As Kim loaded the cart full of vegetables, Steve moved around so Clint could see all around him. The baby was a hit with all the old ladies doing their shopping at two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. He smiled and waved, and they waved back. For a four-month-old, life was going pretty well.

After tying up one last bag of onions, Kim pushed the cart towards the coolers. Steve wandered along in her wake. "When are you going to send me pictures of your new place?" Steve asked, idly pulling down a box of tea, wondering if Sharon might like it, then putting it back on the shelf.

"I'll get around to it." Kim grabbed some paneer off the shelf. "I still haven't unpacked some boxes."

Steve frowned. "You've been there for over a year," he said.

"I know. I just—I don't know if I'm going to stay."

Steve picked up a bottle of mango juice. "Dad said the condo is a bit far from your job. Are you looking closer?"

"No." Kim put the paneer into the cart. Then, out of nowhere, she blurted out, "What the hell am I doing with my life, Steve?"

Steve looked up from the mango juice, his eyes wide. "Uh."

"I mean, I make video games!" she continued. "My dad survived the Nazis, my mother was shot climbing over the Berlin Wall when she was pregnant, and I sit at a desk in an office making video games for a living. I should be _doing_ something."

Warily, Steve put the juice bottle back on the shelf. He grabbed Clint's waving hands before the boy could upset something on the shelf. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Kim ran a hand through her hair, making it stand up on end. She took a deep breath. "Yeah," she said shortly. "Fuck. Never mind." She took hold of the shopping cart and headed off.

Steve gave Clint a little bounce, and followed her.

They walked in silence for a couple of aisles, Kim occasionally putting something into the cart. When she stopped to read the ingredients on a jar of chutney, Steve leaned on the cart. "What was that about?" he asked.

Kim put the jar back. "I'm twenty-eight, and I'm wasting my life," she muttered.

"No, you're not." Steve was honestly puzzled. "You went to college, you're a software engineer, you make real good money. Dad said you were happy out in Seattle."

Kim gave him a look.

"Seattle sucks?" Steve guessed. "So move back. I know some people who know people, I could help you find a job back in the city. I can help you find a place to live."

"This isn't about Seattle," Kim said. She pushed the cart down the aisle. "I like Seattle. Rain is a hell of a lot better than snow."

"If Seattle's okay, could you find a new job there? There's, like, Microsoft. Or Boeing?"

Kim pointed at a large bag of rice. Steve heaved it into the cart. "Do you have any idea what it is that I do?" she asked.

Steve shrugged. "I went to art school, remember? I got a head full of air and opinions on colour palettes."

Kim glared at him. "Stop trash-talking my little brother," she demanded. "You're in charge of the Maria Stark Foundation, everyone knows that name. No blond air-head gets to a job like that." Her serious expression cracked for a second. "Unless you're sleeping with Tony Stark."

Looking back, Steve wished he had a better poker face, but for a fraction of an instant, he stuttered on his response. Kim's jaw dropped in surprise.

"No!" she squealed, then clapped her hands over her mouth when everyone in earshot turned to look at them. " _No!_ Does Sharon know?"

"Shh!" Steve said, hoping that no one around them cared enough to have been listening to the start of this conversation. "Stop it, Tony's a friend, a really good friend. He gave me this job because he knows he can trust me."

Kim was still staring at him. "But, like, a good friend? Or a…" She wagged her eyebrows Groucho Marx-style. "A _good_ friend?"

_"Kimberly."_

"He is way too old for you," Kim said, which really wasn't what Steve was expecting. "He's like, what, forty?"

"Oh my god." Steve covered his face with his hands. "Kim, stop. Tony is my friend. That's all."

He dropped his hands and glared at his sister. She looked back at him for a few seconds.

Then, very carefully, she asked, "So, Tony is your friend, but has there every been any…" She raised her hands to make finger-quotes around the word. "Benefits?"

Steve's head hurt. Kim knew he was bisexual, knew he had dated men as well as women over the years. And Steve had absolutely no qualms about talking about his love life with Kim, be it at home or in a crowded supermarket.

But he was not about to discuss anything to do with Tony Stark where someone could overhear and misunderstand, especially over something that had happened only once, and so long ago. Steve wasn't that kind of friend.

So all he said was, "Can we talk about this later?"

He was ready for Kim to press him, but to his surprise, she dropped the subject right away. She started up on a discussion on what they were going to have for dinner, and then breakfast the following morning. Steve was happy to let Kim lead both the conversation and the shopping, and soon they were at the check-out. In addition to the groceries, Kim bought a half-dozen samosas, which she carried out to the car as Steve staggered under the combined weight of the groceries and a kicking infant.

Steve put the groceries into the trunk, then got into the front seat with Clint still strapped to his chest. Kim had the radio on and was pulling the samosas from their paper wrappings. "Here," she said, putting the bag down between them. "Eat something."

Angling his head so he couldn't drip any crumbs onto Clint, Steve crunched into the samosa, the flavour of the spiced potato filling his senses. "I'd forgot how good these are," he said with a full mouth.

"You remember the stories Dad used to tell about when Mom had Indian food for the first time after defecting from East Germany?" Kim asked.

"Yeah, what did he say?" Steve tried to remember.

"She was so surprised because in East Germany, they only had two things to flavor their food." Kim paused, then she and Steve said together, "Salt and hunger."

"It wasn't that bad, was it?" Steve moved his half-eaten pastry away from Clint's curious hands. "Abraham doesn't talk much about what things were like for him, growing up, but did Marta?"

 Kim picked up another samosa. "A little, more than Dad did. But she'd always ask me and Sally why we wanted to know about any of that stuff. 'You're American children, not German children'," Kim went on in an effected German accent. " 'There are no shortages here, no Stasi here. Think only of good things, not bad'."

Steve popped his last bite into his mouth. "It probably really sucked."

"Yeah." Kim pulled a napkin out of the bag. "I just wish she'd told us more."

Clint, who was getting more annoyed at being unable to grab anything out of Steve's grasp, let out a cranky wail. Steve grabbed the pacifier dangling at the end of its cord and again offered it to Clint. This time, the baby accepted the soother. He flopped against Steve's chest and sucked in what could only be described as a petulant manner.

"Afternoon nap time?" Kim suggested.

"Probably. We were up pretty early." Moving slowly, so as to not jar Clint, Steve reached for another samosa. "So, uh, can I say something about earlier?"

Kim turned. "Do we get to talk more about Tony Stark?" she asked eagerly.

"No."

She deflated. "Fine."

"It's just…" Steve didn't know exactly what he wanted to say, but he owed it to Kim to try to get it out. And he owed it to Clint to figure all this stuff before Clint got old enough to start asking questions. "So, my mom died when I was five."

"Yeah…"

"And. Uh." Steve put down his samosa. He wasn't hungry all of a sudden. "Life sucked for a while. It wasn't anywhere near as bad as what Abraham and Marta went through, but misery doesn't have to be a competition, you know?"

"Yeah…" Kim said again.

Steve ran his hand over Clint's back. The baby made a noise of contentment as his eyelids blinked slowly. "When Clint was born, I started thinking about all that crap I went through, and all that, and I remember thinking that I'd do anything in the world to keep Clint from having to go through even a fraction of the shit I had in my life. Every goddamned day, I'd do anything, work any job, make any trade-off, to make his life better."

Steve spared at glance over at Kim. She was staring out at the parking lot, one hand tight on the steering wheel, the other clenched around the remains of a samosa.

"I didn't think Dad, or your mom, would think you're not doing enough with your life. You're smart, you're safe, you make good money. If things go tits up, you might hit the ground, but you'd bounce right back up again. You're going to be okay."

Kim shoved the half-eaten samosa back into the bag and groped for a napkin. "You're lucky you're holding a baby," she said, her voice shaking a bit as she wiped tears off her face. "Otherwise I would so hit you right now."

"No, you wouldn't," Steve said. "You know I'm right."

Kim sniffled, then blew her nose. "I don't know if you're right, but maybe you're not wrong."

Steve put his hand on Kim's arm. "You should talk to Dad about this."

Kim blew her nose again. "That's a dumb idea."

"No, he'd want to know. And he could tell you about your mom."

Steve held his breath as Kim stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head. "Maybe. _Maybe_."

Steve let out his breath in a rush. "Good. I knew I looked up to you for a reason."

This time, Kim really did punch him on the arm. "Go put that baby of yours in the car seat," she ordered. "I need to get over to Stop-and-Shop so I can buy sour cream. Dad's acting like he's going to be feeding half the people in town tomorrow night."

"He's happy that everyone's going to be home," Steve said, trying to figure out how to maneuver a drowsy Clint out of the baby carrier and into the car seat. "If you get enough, I can make that sour cream coffee cake we invented when you were in senior year."

"Oh, that was a good cake," Kim reminisced, as Steve opened the passenger door and got out. The air outside was picking up a definite chill. "You know, one of those boxes I haven't unpacked back home? All my baking equipment."

Steve opened the back door and put one knee on the seat as he eased a sleepy Clint into the bucket of the car seat. "There's your first problem. Whenever you get a new place, you're supposed to unpack the toilet paper, then the baking stuff."

"Come on, it's getting cold," Kim complained. "I want to get home."

Steve smiled down at Clint as he buckled the restraining straps in place. Clint's eyes were nearly closed, and his breathing slow. "Sounds good," he whispered, then bent over to kiss Clint's forehead. "Let's go."

_End part one. Next up: Hanukkah!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been... *checks watch* nearly five months. I've had some health issues but I'm on the mend now. 
> 
> This chapter has a little bit of everything - family togetherness, some Steve and Tony BFFing, and Steve thinking about co-parenting with Sharon. Plus, baby!Clint is the cutest and I think we could all use some happiness this weekend. ~~Especially this weekend~~.

* * *

Steve woke to the sound of a nearby fart.

For a moment, all he could do was to blink up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom, the pre-dawn street-lights outside sending enough illumination through the curtains to cast shadows over the walls.

Another fart.

Steve shifted onto his side to look at Clint, safely penned in on the mattress between Steve and the wall. The baby, awake and already chewing on his fist, made a muffled squeaking noise.

"Morning, buddy," Steve said. Clint garbled a response. "Why are you up so early?"

Clint took his hand out of his mouth as he reached for his feet.

"Mmm-hmm." Steve reached over to smooth the silk-fine hair on Clint's head. He loved the early quiet mornings when he could hang out with his son, before the stresses of the day came down on them. "Did you have a good sleep?"

Clint kicked one foot while he tried to bring the other up to his mouth.

"Talking to your mommy really helped settle you down last night, huh?"

When Clint had been fussy the previous night, Steve called Sharon back in Brooklyn and she'd spent a little while talking to Clint over the line. The sound of his mother's voice had helped the baby relax into sleep, after which Steve had been able to catch Sharon up on Clint's exciting adventures of the day.

By the end of the call, Sharon had sounded a lot more at ease than went they started, and she had promised to go out and buy a Christmas tree for them to put in in their apartment by the time Steve and Clint got home.

"We're going to have a little tree, and maybe we can put up some Christmas stockings," Steve said to Clint, pulling him into a morning hug. Clint grabbed Steve's pyjama top and babbled. "Don't tell anyone, but I got your mom a Christmas present from you. That's a good rule in life, by the way. If you like someone, you buy them a present."

Clint gummed at his hand some more.

"I wonder what Santa will bring you." Steve wrapped both arms around Clint. It always amazed him how a baby with such a loud voice and vibrant personality could still be so very _tiny_. "Maybe some toys?"

Clint let out a huge yawn, then nuzzled his face against Steve's chest.

"Are you hungry?" Steve looked over at the clock beside his bed. "Almost seven o'clock. Is it time for breakfast?"

Clint yawned again.

Steve got himself out of bed as silently as possible. The house was quiet, with the normal early morning noises – the low hum of the heater in the basement, the whisper of water in the pipes. Somewhere, someone else was up. Probably Abraham; the man had always been an early riser.

Steve carried Clint past Kim's closed door on the way to the bathroom. "Your Aunt Kim is still on Pacific time," Steve whispered. "Even if she's been in Georgia for a week, she's still going to be up real late. She's a night owl."

Clint whined.

"Come on, let's get you changed."

Mindful of the previous day's dirty diaper debacle, Steve was efficient about getting Clint into a clean diaper and a new onesie. Then, in order to buy himself enough time to complete his own morning ablutions, he plopped Clint down on his tummy on the bathroom rug.

"One of these days," Steve explained as he used the electric razor to shave. "You'll be able to roll from your front to your back, and then we're all in trouble. But until then…" Steve paused to run the razor under his nose. "Tummy time is my time."

Clint burbled in delight.

In a few minutes, Steve had finished up, and he and Clint headed downstairs in search of some breakfast. As Steve got to the foot of the stairs, he slowed.

Something was… off.

Unlike other mornings when Abraham was the first one up, there was no smell of coffee drifting out of the kitchen, no low hum of the radio.

Was something wrong?

It was only a few steps to get to the kitchen, Clint quiet in Steve's arms. As Steve rounded the corner, he saw Abraham sitting at his usual spot at the table, leaning forward slightly, his arms out in front of him, propped against the table holding him up.

Steve's heart skipped a beat as he took a step closer. Abraham, who had worn long sleeves every single day that Steve had known him, even on the hottest and most humid of New Jersey summer days, had his sleeve pushed up, and he was looking down at the fading blue numbers that had for so long been etched on his forearm.

"Dad?"

Abraham started at Steve's voice, absently pulling his sleeve down as he turned. "Steven, you are awake early." His voice was rougher than normal as he pulled off his glasses to rub at his eyes. "I did not expect you until later."

Steve shifted a wriggling Clint up higher on his arm. "Clint woke up," he said, feeling like he had interrupted something he shouldn't have. "Sharon goes to work early, and when she was feeding him... anyway, he got used to it. I can come back."

"What are you talking about?" Abraham put his glasses back on. "The baby needs to eat, then the baby eats. Come, let me say good morning to the little one."

Steve handed Clint over to Abraham. "I just changed him so he should be fine," Steve said. "Are you… I mean, should I make coffee?"

"Anything you want to do," said Abraham. He chucked Clint under the chin, making the boy trill. " _Guten morgen_ , little Clint. Did you sleep all the night?"

Clint babbled, reaching for Abraham's open shirt sleeve with a slobbery hand. He poked at Abraham's arm, where a fragment of the blue tattoo still showed.

Steve reached for Clint's fingers. "No, Clint, don't do that."

Abraham caught Steve's hand in a gentle motion. "Steven, it is all right." He gave Steve's hand a squeeze, before turning his attention back to Clint. "It is all right," he repeated softly to himself. "It is in the past."

"I didn't…." Steve felt tongue-tied and stupid as he sat down beside Abraham. "You never talk about it, I don't…"

Abraham turned Clint around so the boy was sitting on his knee. For few minutes, both men watched Clint as the little boy looked around the room, chewing on his fingers.

After what felt like an eternity, Abraham let out a sigh. "All my life, I tell to myself, I cannot live in the past. There are things I remember from so long ago, many things I do remember." He reached around Clint to re-button his shirt cuff. "But remembering the past seldom helps in the present. This is what I tell to Marta, when she asked."

Clint let out a questioning shriek, grabbing at the edge of the table. Abraham gently bounced the baby up and down, making Clint chortle with delight.

"With my Marta gone, so many years now, and you children off on your own lives… Sometimes, even if I do not want it, the past comes back to live with me."

Steve leaned forward. He hadn't known that Abraham felt that way. "If, um, if you want me and Clint to spend more time down here with you…" he began.

"No, no," Abraham said, lifting Clint up so he was propped against Abraham's shoulder. "Steven, it is right that you have your life, it is what a father wants for his children." Abraham put a hand on Steve's arm. "When you are old like me, you will see that there is a difference between not dwelling on the past, and in hiding from it. Me, I am not a man to hide. I know my past, and what happened, even when I was very young." He kissed the side of Clint's head. "But I now am old, and some mornings, I sit, and I remember."

Clint burbled against Abraham's shoulder, his eyes wide and clear as he stared at his father.

"And on some days, I think that whatever else has happened in the world, I am still here." Abraham blinked a few times, then looked down at his grandson. "That there are still some people like me here."

As Steve swallowed against the lump in his throat, Clint kicked his little feet and tried to shove his entire fist into his mouth.

"Ah," said Abraham, letting out a shaky laugh. "Here are we old men, talking about ancient history, and you are a hungry little boy. We must feed you before you cry, yes?"

"I'll get the bottle," Steve said, standing up. "And, uh, Dad?"

"Yes?" Abraham had resumed bouncing Clint on his knee.

"If you ever want to talk about stuff…" Steve rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like an idiot. "I mean, I'm here if you need anything."

Abraham shifted Clint back to his shoulder and stood. "I know," Abraham said as he reached out one arm. Steve bent down for the hug. "You are such a good boy, my Steven."

Clint chose this moment to let out a cry of famished protest. Steve pulled back with alacrity. "I'll get the bottle," he said.

"Oh, little boy," Abraham said, bouncing Clint on his arm. "Babies have no time for the philosophies of the old, I know. You are in the moment."

Clint, at the end of his patience, screamed his agreement.

Steve did his best to hurry, but Clint's outrage reached such a pitch that Kim soon stumbled into the kitchen, her short hair pointing in all directions. She took in her father holding a shrieking baby, Steve frantically trying to screw the top on the bottle, and shook her head.

"Coffee," she croaked.

"A little busy right now," Steve said, finally securing the bottle. He dashed a few drops of formula onto his wrist to check the temperature, then dove across the kitchen, bottle in his outstretched hand. The nipple landed in Clint's open mouth, interrupting him mid-shriek. Quiet descended on the house as Clint nursed with only a few lingering sniffles.

"Oh my god," Steve said, collapsing into a chair. His worries about his parenting skills had risen up again in his head. If Sharon had been with them, Clint wouldn't have gotten so worked up.

Was he ever going to get _anything_ right?

Abraham held the bottle as he bobbed around the kitchen with Clint in his arms. "Everything is all right," Abraham said. "You see? There are a few tears, but they will pass." Abraham leaned against the counter to settle Clint a little closer. "Clint understands, don't you _, bärchen_?"

Clint sucked harder on the bottle.

Kim went over to the sink with the kettle in her hand. "I feel that way sometimes, kid," she commiserated. "Trying to get out of the house in the morning without any coffee makes me want to cry, too."

"It's not the same thing," Steve muttered.

"I know." Kim turned on the tap to fill the kettle. "When I start screaming in the morning, people look at me funny. No one's rushing around to appease my every whim."

Steve sat back. "Clint's a baby," he said defensively. "It's different."

Kim turned off the tap, put the kettle on the stove, then turned around. Her expression was pitying. "That is exactly my point, dumbass."

"Kimberly," Abraham interjected mildly. "Do not call your brother names."

"He's the one who left his sense of humour at the door this morning," Kim protested.

Abraham clicked his tongue. "Kimberly, sit." He waited until Kim shuffled over to the table and sat down before sitting himself. He took a moment to arrange Clint on his lap, still nursing away at the bottle, then looked at Kim and Steve over his glasses. "I am very glad that you are all home for the holiday," he began. "But this is the first Hanukkah with the little children, and you are to set a good example."

Kim slumped in her chair. "Dad, we always set a good example."

This was such a blatant misrepresentation of the truth that Steve coughed. Kim kicked at him under the table.

"Kimberly, every year when you see your sister, you push her buttons," Abraham pointed out. "Then she snaps back, and Steve hides. Not this year. This year, you will all act like grown-ups and give the children a wonderful family gathering."

Kim scowled at the table. "I will if Sally does," she said eventually.

"Good," Abraham said. "Steven?"

"What?" Steve asked.

"No hiding," Abraham repeated. "Sally comes a long way to see all of her family, including you."

Privately, Steve doubted that very much; he had never been close to the Erskine's oldest daughter, and she never seemed to pay him much attention when they were in the same room. Still, with Abraham's early morning reminiscences still in his mind, Steve nodded. "I look forward to seeing her," Steve said.

"Good." Abraham stood up. "Now, I have to check in at the clinic. One of you can make breakfast, and then we will talk about who is coming with me to pick up Sally and Peter at the airport." He handed Clint, now finished at his bottle, over to Steve, and strode out of the room.

Kim waited until they heard the distant sound of Abraham's voice in the den before saying, "This is going to such a fucking disaster."

"It'll be fine," Steve said. He reached over to grab an old tea towel to sling over his shoulder before turning Clint around for a burping. "We all just gotta act like adults."

Kim glared.

"Dad's right," Steve added. "You do rile Sally up"

"She starts it," Kim shot back.

"So don't finish it." Steve patted Clint's back. "Look, if I can hang in there, can you do it too? To give Dad the holiday he wants?"

The kettle began to hiss gently. Kim hauled herself upright. "If that's what Dad wants, then sure." She pulled down the coffee canister from the cupboard.

Carefully, Steve levered himself to his feet. Clint still hadn't burped, which was a bit surprising with the speed at which he'd sucked down his breakfast. Hoping his little boy was okay, Steve edged closer to where Kim was measuring coffee grounds into the industrial-sized French press Abraham preferred.

Kim looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "What?"

Steve leaned against the counter. "Why aren't you and Sally getting along?"

"When have we ever gotten along?"

Steve cast his mind back to when he had come to live with the Erskines, fourteen years before. Sally had been going into her senior year of high school, and had not been overly thrilled that her father had decided to adopt Steve. She had never been mean to Steve, or even dismissive; she just had very little time to spend with him. Then she had graduated, worked the summer at the local Denny's, and gone off to study nursing at the University of Maryland in Baltimore.

Steve had been only thirteen at the time, and for the next few years had been so busy he didn't have the time to put a lot of thought towards Sally Erskine.

"It doesn't really matter," Kim said, interrupting Steve's thought process. "We do what we always do, try to make nice for Dad, and then go home and not speak to each other for a few months."

Clint wriggled and turned his head to look over at Kim.

"Maybe…" Kim grabbed the kettle and began to fill the French press. "I don't know. Sally was always closer to Mom than I was. Maybe that has something to do with it."

 "Maybe," Steve said. He turned Clint in his arms so the baby could watch the coffee brewing process. "Do you want me to make breakfast? What do you want?"

"Pancakes," Kim said immediately. "And does Dad have any chicken sausage?"

"I'll look." Once Kim had the top on the French press, Steve handed her the baby, then went to dig in the fridge. "Is Sally going to be here for lunch?"

"Yes," came Abraham's voice from the hallway. "Her plane will be at the airport by one, and then I will drive her home."

"Anything at the clinic?" Kim asked, hoisting Clint into her father's arms.

"No, all is well." Abraham sat down. Clint blew a raspberry and mumbled to himself.

"Are you working Christmas again?" Steve asked, emerging from the fridge with an armload.

"Yes." Abraham didn't flinch as Clint tried to grab his nose. "Yes, _bärchen_ , I am working on Christmas Day, and it will be very interesting. So many things come into the clinic on Christmas. Last year, I stitched up seven gashed fingers." He held up one hand, and counted to seven. Clint stared, entranced. "And luckily, I will be done and home by four, so everyone who eats too much and thinks they are having a heart attack will have to go to the emergency room, as they should."

"No," Kim said suddenly. Steve looked over to see murder in his sister's eyes. "I made that applesauce for tonight. Put it _back!"_

Steve danced back, container of applesauce in his hands. "Come on, it'd be great on pancakes!"

"It's supposed to be great on the latkes!" Kim came after him. Steve moved back around the kitchen island. "Steve, I worked on that for an hour last night!"

"What are you talking about?" Steve ducked out of the way of a grab. "You made me peel all the apples!"

"And this," Abraham said to Clint, "Is what I have had to put up with for fourteen years."

Clint let out a huge belch. Distracted, Steve looked over at his son, and Kim took the opportunity to tackle Steve against the counter.

* * *

Later, as Steve and Kim were playing rock-paper-scissors to see who would clean up the breakfast dishes, Abraham stood. "I have an early present for Clint," he announced. "Stay here."

Steve slammed his hand down flat on the table. "Best five out of nine?" Kim suggested hopefully.

 "Nice try." Steve moved his fork out of Clint's reach. "If I can get Dad to watch Clint, I'll dry."

"Deal."

Kim stood to begin clearing the table. Steve sat back and lifted Clint around so the baby was facing him. "What do you think?" Steve asked Clint. "Do you want to go on a long car ride with your grandpa and Aunt Kim? All the way to the airport? Or do you want to stay here and go to the park?"

Clint squealed, trying to shove his hand in Steve's mouth.

"That's exactly what I thought you were gonna say," Steve agreed. He pretended to chew on Clint's fingers, making the boy squeal again. "Kim, Clint says you're going to have to go to the airport with Dad instead of us."

Kim picked up the empty plates. "Or I could be the one to stay here with the baby," she rejoined.

Steve's eyebrows went up. "You want to be on solo diaper duty for that long?"

The look of alarm on Kim's face almost made Steve laugh.

"Here we are," said Abraham, returning to the kitchen with a large box, wrapped in bright green paper. "For Clint."

"Dad, you didn't have to do this," Steve protested, getting to his feet.

"Yes, I must." Abraham put the package on the table. "It is the job of a grandparent to buy presents for his grandchildren." He pushed the box towards Steve. "Do you think Clint can rip the paper yet?"

"If he thinks he can put it in his mouth, maybe." Steve leaned over to give Abraham a hug. "Dad, really. Thanks."

Abraham patted Steve on the cheek, then gently tapped Clint's nose. "I hope that he will like it, and you too."

Kim came over to the table, her digital camera at the ready. "We're rolling," she announced, camera aimed at Clint. "Baby's first Hanukkah gift, take one."

Steve's throat felt tight. He'd never known why, all those years ago, Abraham had picked little Steve Rogers to adopt and bring into his family, but he had. And now Steve had the best family in the world. With Clint in his life, Steve was as happy as he could ever imagine.

He cleared his throat. "How about it, buddy?" Steve asked Clint. "Do you want to open your present?"

Clint stared at the box, eyes wide.

"Let's give it a try," suggested Abraham. Steve held Clint up, but Clint only slapped at the box and chortled.

 "Here, I will help." Abraham ripped one corner of the paper, then put Clint's hand on the tear. "Pull."

Clint slapped the box again.

"The tragedy of infancy," Kim opined from behind her camera. "Baby's first present, and not enough cognitive motor skills to unwrap it."

Abraham tsked. He took Clint's pudgy hand in his, folded Clint's fingers around the strip of wrapping paper, and 'helped' Clint pull the paper away.

"Oh, nice," Kim said when the box was revealed.

"Wow," Steve breathed. "Look, Clint, a jolly jumper."

"I think it will help with his strength," said Abraham. "Also, from what my colleagues tell me, small babies cannot escape once they are tied in. Let us put it together."

Steve and Kim unpacked the box with Abraham adding commentary for Clint. Then Steve strapped Clint into the little jump seat while Abraham and Kim hooked the device's top clamp onto the kitchen door jamb.

Then came the moment of truth. Steve hooked Clint up to the jumper so he dangled, his little feet just resting on the floor. Clint stared at his father in consternation, chewing on his finger.

"Go on," Steve said in encouragement. "Bounce."

Kim had the camera going again. "I think you'll need to give him a hand," she said.

Abraham pulled down on Clint's legs so the boy bounced a little. Clint's mouth opened in an _O_ of confusion at the motion. Abraham repeated his actions, then sat back.

Experimentally, Clint straightened his little legs, sending him into a bounce. His confusion gave way to delight as he bounced again, and he screamed in delight.

Watching Clint jump around was more entertaining than doing the dishes. All three adults sat around the doorway while Clint bounced himself silly, Kim recording it all on her camera. Steve would occasionally reach out to keep Clint from crashing into the door frame.

Abraham called a halt to the fun long before Clint had tired himself out. "Little babies need time to develop muscle tone," Abraham said over Kim's disappointed noises. "Ten minutes today, fifteen next week. He must grow at his own speed."

Clint picked up Clint, who was still kicking at the air. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked.

Clint kicked some more, babbling energetically.

Steve hugged Clint, kissing his fine hair. "You're growing up," he whispered. "Soon you'll be walking all on your own."

Abraham looked up from here he was putting the pieces of the jumper back into the box. "Steven, will you be coming to the airport with us?"

Kim, who had reluctantly retreated to the sink, said, "Dad, your car can't fit four adults and two babies, no matter how much of a land yacht it is."

Abraham went over to the French press to pour himself one last cup of coffee. "Then who will come with me to get Sally?"

Steve, trying to contain an over-excited Clint, pointed his elbow at Kim. "After all that fun, I think Clint's going to zonk out in a while."

"Well." Abraham knocked back the coffee. "We will clean up, then we will go, yes?"

Steve went to retrieve the baby sling from the front hall, strapped in a shrieking Clint, and helped his father and sister do the dishes.

Once the kitchen was spotless, Kim vanished upstairs for a shower while Steve and Abraham lounged around in the family room. They watched Clint fight a battle with gravity in his determination to roll over from his front to his back. So far, gravity was winning.

"And I think we'll need to hire an in-house graphic designer," Steve was telling Abraham when Kim reappeared, dressed for the day. "The turn-around for some of the events we're planning next year is already tight, without having to factor in delays on program design."

"Will that not drive up your overhead?" Abraham asked, a veteran of office administration after twenty years as a family practitioner. Kim plopped onto the ground beside her nephew.

Steve shrugged. "Tony has some tax deduction deal set up where he pays for the office administration so more of the funds we raise go back into the community."

Kim raised an eyebrow at Steve. "Tony… Stark?" she asked smugly.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Ooh." Kim pulled Clint in front of her. "Protect me from your dad's mighty frown, kid."

Clint, thwarted in his desire for greater mobility, let out a roar of fury. Kim meeped and almost fell over in her haste to shove Clint at Steve.

The Tony Stark part of the conversation forgotten, Steve saw Abraham and Kim out of the house without further ado. As the car drove away in the direction of Newark airport, Steve headed upstairs to change Clint's diaper. Clint was winding down now, his frantic energy brought on by the excitement fading. Steve snapped him into a new onesie, then wrestled his chubby limbs into sweatpants and a sweater.

"We're going out for a walk," Steve informed Clint in a quiet voice. Clint rubbed his eyes. "Just you and me and the old neighbourhood, how does that sound?"

Clint yawned mightily.

Quickly, Steve hauled his son downstairs and got them all suited up for a walk; Clint bundled up and secure in his baby carrier, while Steve shoved his feet into his boots and yanked a hat over his head. He didn't expect to be gone long, and wouldn't be anywhere where he could change Clint's diaper in case of emergency. Giving the house one last look, Steve put his phone in his pocket, locked the door behind him, and headed off into the crisp morning.

By the time Steve had made it half a block, Clint was sound asleep.

Most of the neighbourhood was the same as the day Abraham brought Steve home to stay. The cars were newer, some houses had new roofs or paintjobs, but not a lot had changed over the fourteen years in this corner of New Jersey.

Steve walked slowly along the sidewalk, talking quietly to his oblivious son. "That house there, that's where Kim used to babysit the Dupont twins," he said. "The family moved when I was in senior year, off to California, I think. And over there, that house with all the Christmas lights, that house almost burned down a few years ago when the son-in-law decided to deep-fry a turkey on Thanksgiving."

Steve smiled to himself as he turned the corner. He had a history here, in a way he didn't in Brooklyn.

He felt a stab of remembered pain when he thought about Brooklyn. It had been nearly thirteen years since he'd left the city and his best friend behind. Thirteen years since his last letter to Bucky, almost as long since he'd cried himself to sleep when Bucky didn't write back.

The pain was blunted with time, now; time and an adult's understanding of the life Bucky had at home, with his dad. Steve hadn't really understood how things had been at Bucky's house until he had a home of his own, with a new family that loved him and actually wanted to be part of Steve's life.

Steve let out a sigh. "I'm going to be the kind of dad for you, that Abraham was for me," he told Clint. "The kind of dad that always wants to talk to you about stuff and hear what you have to day. Not a guy who slaps his kids around for making too much noise."

Steve had only seen Bucky's dad hit him once, when Mr. Barnes hadn't known Steve was in the house. Bucky had always said to forget about it, that it was no big deal. But even at ten years old, Steve had known it was.

Clint shifted in his sleep, one little mittened hand moving up to his cheek. Steve put his hands on Clint's back, to reassure himself that his baby was okay.

"We're in this together, buddy," Steve said quietly. "Anything you need, me and your mom, we're going to get it for you. We're going to make sure you have a great life."

Father and son continued on, passing a few people walking their dogs. On the Sunday before Christmas, the playground Steve had been aiming for was full of children already bored by being inside.

"Maybe next year, you and me can hang out here for a bit," Steve suggested to Clint. "You'll be almost one-and-a-half next Hanukkah, running and climbing and all that." Steve couldn't help imagining what he might be able to do with his son when Clint got older, all those things Steve never had a chance to do with a father when he was little – go to a baseball game, throw a football, go fishing. Sure, Steve didn't really have any interest in doing any of those things on his own, but it was what all those parenting magazines said dads should do with their sons.

When Steve had come to live with the Erskines, he and Abraham hadn't done anything like go fishing, but that was okay. Abraham had taught Steve how to cook and bake, how to sew and clean the house. He had enrolled Steve in first aid classes, and bought Steve all the art supplies he could afford.

Kim had been the one to teach Steve to drive, and Sally had shown them both how to fix a flat tire and change the oil in Abraham's old car.

Steve had already known how to throw a punch, and how to take one, but Abraham had taught Steve other ways of fighting back.

Shaking off the memories, Steve made his way over to a bench at the edge of the little park, pulling out his phone as he sat. He took a quick picture of Clint sleeping, emailed it to Sharon, then sat back, enjoying a rare minute of rest.

A cocker spaniel snuffled its way over to Steve, followed by its elderly owner. The man exchanged a few friendly words with Steve, then said, "Merry Christmas," as he shuffled off behind his rambling dog.

Steve peered down at Clint. "That didn't happen before you, you know. People wouldn't give me the time of day, then I started carrying around a small baby and I'm everyone's best friend."

Clint snoozed on.

Unlocking his phone, Steve checked his email, which was as quiet as it had been the day before. Idly, he ran through his contacts list, wondering if there was anyone he could hit up for some adult conversation before Clint woke up. Sharon was at work, his family was in transit to the Newark airport, and even his friend Thor was out of things – he had been ordered by this father to return home for the royal festivities in Denmark, much to his chagrin.

This didn't leave Steve with a lot of options, but luckily, the one person left was the one who Steve could always count on for chatter. He scrolled down, and hit 'call'.

The line picked up after one ring, a voice said, "Call back in thirty seconds," and then the line went dead.

Steve sighed, counted to thirty, then re-dialed.

As soon as the line connected this time, Steve heard the strains of the _Dreidel Song_ playing in midi tones. In spite of himself, Steve laughed. "Happy Hanukkah to you too, Tony."

"Is it Hanukkah? Tony Stark asked. Steve could picture his friend in his favourite hiding spot of the robotics lab in the Manhattan offices of Stark Industries.

"It's sunset somewhere," Steve said. "Which robot did you get to sing?"

"Dummy. The trick is getting him to stop, which I haven't found yet," Tony said. "Pepper asked for _Silent Night_ yesterday and he literally hasn't shut up since then. He's a compete disaster."

In the background of the call, the _Dreidel Song_ stopped abruptly, and _Silent Night_ rose in its place.

"Oh, fucking—" Tony stifled a groan. "If this keeps up, one of us is going out that window!"

"Tony," Steve said. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." There was a muffled bang, then quiet. "Well, no, I'm hiding."

"Making Pepper do all the work?"

"She's better at it than I am."

Since Steve agreed that Pepper Potts was indeed better suited to handling the day-to-day running of Stark Industries than its CEO, he let that pass. "Are you going up to the Hamptons for Christmas?"

"Yeah, we're leaving tomorrow. Lucy has her terrible kids home from college for Hanukkah today and Pepper didn't want to disturb them."

Clint moved, tensing slightly before relaxing once again against Steve's chest. Steve let his free hand rest on Clint's back, feeling him breathe. "I'm sure the Jarvises wouldn't mind if you came by your own house for Hanukkah," Steve said cautiously. He knew who Edwin Jarvis had been to Tony growing up… and also how Tony tried very hard to convince himself that he didn't need anyone.

"No," said Tony abruptly, and Steve knew that he'd never change his mind on it now. "What are you and the baby mama doing on Christmas?"

"Breakfast and presents, I think," Steve said. "She's picking up a tree after work today and maybe we'll decorate it when I get back into town. Clint won't remember any of this Christmas, but I still want him to have a good one."

"He's, what, two years old?" Tony said. "Get him a shoebox, he'll be good for days."

"He's four-and-a-half months old," Steve corrected. "And we got him one of those baby play stations for when he's in his high chair."

"Shoebox," Tony repeated.

Steve bit down on a retort. He'd been one of those kids who got a shoebox at Christmas, full of cheap odds and ends put together by a bunch of rich kids in their volunteer groups; kids who would never have to worry about being cold and alone on the holidays. Instead, he said, "What are you getting Pepper for Christmas?"

Tony launched into a rapid diatribe about commercialism and obligatory gift-giving, which Steve took to mean that Pepper had pre-emptively put the kibosh on a number of Tony's planned gifts.

Standing slowly, so as not to jostle Clint, Steve started for home, still listening to Tony and giving the appropriate responses when Tony paused for breath. Eventually, Tony admitted that he had finally given up and made Pepper a necklace in the lab.

"Define made in the lab," Steve asked, pausing before he crossed a street. "Like, you found some scrap metal kicked over in a corner and had your robots twist it into a pendant, or you did something insanely dangerous and finally figure out how to make diamonds in the lab microwave?"

"It wasn't dangerous," Tony protested, which gave Steve his answer. "And it's not a microwave. At least, not any more."

Steve looked skyward for strength. "Tony."

"It's not like it's a big diamond, anyway," Tony hurried on. "It's red, that's all."

"She's going to love it."

"She's going to hate it," Tony said. "Maybe I should buy her a plane."

"Pepper doesn't want a plane," Steve said. "She'll love the necklace because you made it for her."

Tony made a dismissive noise, then asked, "What about you?"

"Well, I'm sure as hell not getting Sharon a red diamond necklace for Christmas," Steve replied.

"No, what do you want me to get you for Christmas."

Steve sighed. "Not a goddamned thing," he said. "Just invite me to that fancy New Year's Day brunch you got planned, and we're set."

"You're already invited," Tony said. "Come on, it can be anything you like. New car. Trip to the Bahamas." A pause. "Honeymoon cruise."

Steve stopped walking, the old familiar irritation rising in his chest. He hated when Tony did this, tried to put a monetary value on their friendship. He hated how this felt like a test, and Tony didn't even realize it.

Most of all, Steve hated how he was tempted, just a little, by Tony's offhand offer of things Steve couldn't afford.

He pushed all that down. He was Steve Rogers. He had a great job, a great family, and he had everything he needed to raise Clint safe and healthy. There was only one thing he needed from Tony Stark.

"I already got everything I need for Christmas," Steve said evenly into the phone.

" _Steeeve_."

"Tony, I know this might be impossible for you, but for once in your life, you need to relax. Go find Pepper and make sure she has lunch or something. It's the Sunday before Christmas, she shouldn't be working too hard."

"Oh," Tony said, sounding surprised. "Right. People aren't supposed to work too hard on Sundays, right?"

"There are labour laws about that," Steve said in agreement. "Tony. Go see if Pepper needs a break."

"Right," Tony said, and hung up.

Steve shook his head as he turned the final corner towards home. "Your Uncle Tony is a handful and a half," he said to the still-sleeping Clint.

His phone rang. Steve glanced down at the screen as he accepted the call. "Tony?"

"Merry Christmas and all that," Tony said abruptly. "To you and the butterball." He hung up before Steve could respond.

"Butterball," Steve muttered under his breath as he texted Tony a _Merry Christmas_. "You're no butterball." He pocketed his phone. "Maybe a bag of jelly beans, huh?"

Clint sighed in his sleep.

"You sleep like your mother," Steve said as they turned up the path to Abraham's house. "Once your mom's asleep, nothing short of a foghorn in the next room can wake her up. You're a sleeping rock star."

The house was quiet and warm. Steve shucked off his winter gear before heading into the living room. Moving with care, he removed Clint from the baby carrier and laid him on the couch cushions, all without the baby waking up.

Keeping one ear open, Steve made a quick visit to the downstairs bathroom, then darted into the kitchen. Sunset wasn't for a few more hours, but Steve could get a head start on the evening's treats.

He had the dough for the sufganiyot mixed and set aside to rise before he heard any noise from the living room. After washing his hands, Steve went to find his son.

Clint was still half asleep when Steve picked him up. "Did you have a good nap?" Steve asked quietly. Clint let out a cranky noise and cuddled close to his father, melting Steve's heart. "I bet you did."

Steve held Clint and walked around the house, talking softly as Clint slowly worked his way back to consciousness. As always, Steve marvelled at how Clint woke up differently at different times of day. In the mornings, he sprang awake, ready to fight the day. His morning naps were harder to wake up from, and he was usually still half-asleep when he took his post-nap bottle.

The afternoons were another story, but Steve would deal with that disaster when it hit him. With all the excitement of Sally and Peter showing up, and the final preparations for Hanukkah, Clint might get too excited to nap…. Which would lead to a very early night and an interrupted sleep.

"That's okay," Steve said, stroking Clint's cheek with one finger. Clint squirmed and turned his head away. "You do what you need, and I'll take care of you."

Clint drooled contentedly on Steve's shoulder.

* * *

The rest of the family got back from the airport a little while later. Steve was in the kitchen, getting the lasagne ready to put in the oven, when he heard the front door open. He quickly washed his hands, went over to grab Clint from the laundry-basket that had been functioning as a make-shift baby holding pen, and went into the living room.

Even though the number of people had only doubled, the noise was through the roof. Sally had always been the loudest of the Erskines, and she was talking non-stop at her father as they all divested of coats and boots and baggage. Peter, Sally's son, was volubly and frantically trying to escape his mother's grip on him as she peeled him out of his winter jacket.

Steve hesitated. He tended to stay out of the way when Sally was home, but Abraham's directive from that morning had stuck with him. So, Steve told himself, he would make an effort to take part in the various family activities. Hefting Clint up to his shoulder, he moved forward.

"Hi Sally," Steve said, planting a smile on his face.

Sally barely glanced up from where she was attempting to prevent her toddler from strangling himself on his own jacket hood. "Hi Steve—Oh, Peter, stop!"

Peter let out a petulant howl, then with the boneless grace of all thirteen-month-olds, he slithered out of his jacket and plopped onto the floor.

Steve looked around. Kim was hanging her jacket on the hook. "Good drive?" he asked. Clint burbled a string of notes and tried to grab at Steve's nose.

Kim pushed her hair back so it was standing up on end. "Newark was a _disaster_ ," she bemoaned. "Everyone was flying in for the holidays. I had to go in to get these two," and she jerked a thumb towards Sally and Peter, "While Dad circled in the car the whole time."

"I had a full tank of gas and realistic expectations," Abraham said as he placed his boots against the wall. "Now, we are all home." He beamed at his family. "Let us go sit down and have coffee."

First, however, Abraham had to help Sally untangle Peter, who had gotten himself caught in the bannister. Kim sped past them all into the kitchen, and after making sure that no one would need to call the fire department to rescue Peter, Steve followed her.

"You know what the great thing about coming back home is?" Kim asked from the depths of the pantry.

"No one makes you pay rent?" Steve asked. He shifted Clint to one hip so he could fill the kettle.

"Nope." Kim emerged triumphantly with a shiny bottle in one hand. "It's that Dad stocks the kosher vodka."

"Kimberly Erskine," Steve said severely. "It isn't even two in the afternoon."

"Don't care." Kim twisted off the cap of the bottle and upended it over a water glass. "I'm on vacation."

"If you get drunk and ruin Hanukkah, Dad's going to be upset," Steve pointed out.

A tiny shriek sounded from the living room, followed by Sally's yelp of "Peter!"

Kim held out the bottle. "You want some?" she asked.

"No." Steve waited until Kim had diluted her vodka with tomato juice before handing Clint over to her. "I need to finish getting dinner ready."

"Fine." Kim sat at the table, baby in one hand, drink in the other. "Kid, promise me you'll always be chill."

Clint chortled.

"Like your dad," Kim went on. "Or me, but definitely chill." She paused to take a drink. "Oh, god, this is awful."

Steve went into the pantry to retrieve the Worcestershire and hot sauce, wordlessly handing them to Kim. She shook drops from both into her glass.

"Like I was saying," she went on after setting the hot sauce on the table. "Chill. Always be chill, and we'll be good. _Capiche_?"

"When exactly have you ever been chill in your life?" Steve asked, sprinkling parmesan over the lasagne.

"Hey, I'm chill," Kim protested. She settled back in her chair, successfully fending off Clint's attempts to put his hand in her cocktail. "I'm chill all the time at home."

"Don't listen to her, Clint," Steve said as he carried the lasagne towards the oven. Clint trilled. "Your Aunt Kim is a number of things, but chill and relaxed is not on the list."

"I have a Type A personality," Kim said defensively.

Steve closed the oven door. "You can keep talking all you want, I'm not going to believe you."

Abraham came into the kitchen, followed by Sally carrying a struggling Peter. "Coffee'll be ready in a few minutes," Steve called as he closed the stove door. "Does Peter need a snack or anything?"

"He's fine," Sally said shortly. "What's for dinner?"

"Vegetarian lasagne and salad," Steve replied. "And Kim's got everything ready for the latkes and the dough will be ready in a little bit so we can get started on the sufganiyot."

Peter started crying, but his tears dried up as soon as Sally put him down. The boy blinked, steadying himself on his wobbly legs, then took a few steps over to Abraham's chair.

"Sounds like you've got everything under control," Sally said.

Steve wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "I had some time to get everything ready. Kim and I went shopping yesterday."

Kim knocked back the rest of her drink.

"Good," Sally said. "No, Peter, don't climb up on your grandfather like that."

"It is all right," Abraham said, although he did lift Peter back to the floor. "It must have been a long time on the airplane from Portland, yes?"

"No!" Peter shouted. He made grabby hands at Abraham, who held out his own hands for the toddler to hold.

"Yes," Sally said wearily.

Steve put the last dirty dish into the sink, then knelt down a few feet away from Abraham's chair. Peter eyed him warily. "Hey, Peter," Steve said with a smile. "I'm your Uncle Steve. I saw you last year at Hanukkah but you were just a little baby then."

Peter bent his knees, then pulled his hands out of Abraham's and took a step towards Steve.

Steve looked up at Sally. "How about Peter and me go explore the stairs while you all catch up?" he suggested. "Get him to run around some?"

"Oh god, yes," Sally said. "Peter, you go with Steve, okay?"

Peter looked back at his mother, then at Steve. His face scrunched in a mighty frown, but he took another step towards Steve.

Steve held out his hand. "Come on, let's see what Grandpa Abraham has out in the hallway."

Peter grasped Steve's thumb with his little hand, and watched with big eyes as Steve stood up.

"I'll watch Clint," Kim said, where Clint was still sitting on her lap.

"Thanks," Steve said. "Ready to head off, Peter?"

With only a little guidance, Steve steered Peter out of the kitchen and into the hallway. For a thirteen-month-old, Peter was already pretty steady on his feet, but he paused every few steps to look at something. Steve went with him patiently, wondering how Clint would compare to his cousin in less than a year's time. Peter had always been a chunky baby, and he was growing into a solid little toddler. He'd probably be shorter than Clint when they grew up, as Sally was not a tall woman and Kim had said that the mysterious husband wasn't much taller than Abraham.

Steve only had to dive in once to stop Peter from sticking his fingers in a light socket, and they reached the stairs without incident. Peter babbled as he hauled himself up one stair, then two, Steve close behind to catch him if he started to falter.

From the kitchen, Steve could hear the Erskines talking. It had always been a trick of the architecture in this house that sound from the lower level seemed to funnel into the stairwell, a trick that Kim had taught Steve about in his first month with the family. And it wasn't as if Sally didn't know about it, Steve reasoned.

"The baby seems to be doing well," Sally was saying. Clint let out a squeak, as if he was being bounced. "Steve's still working, right?"

"Yes," Abraham replied. "He and Sharon have their schedules worked out so that they can care for this little one."

Steve reached out to stop Peter from sticking his head through the bannister again. Peter let out a cranky noise as he sat on the step and looked around.

"And everything between them is…. Okay?"

Steve bit down on his lip. He didn't know how Sally could load so much inuendo into one word.

"How?" Kim's voice cut across the tension in the air, suddenly sharp. "They're fine, Steve told me."

"He also told you they don't plan to get married," Sally shot back. "You think everything's going to be okay when Sharon decides she's done and leaves with the baby?"

Steve let out a breath at the sudden rush of anger and panic Sally's words brought. He _knew_ that what he and Sharon had was only temporary. He knew that sooner or later, Sharon would get a better job or a promotion, at least enough to move out on her own.

And he knew that she would probably take Clint with her.

"Hubyuhbah!" Peter exclaimed.

Steve shook his head. Suddenly he was done with the stairs. "Come on," he said. "How about you and me go poke around the living room?"

"Bayehna," Peter agreed. Steve picked the boy up and was down the stairs in a few steps, crossing the hall into the living room with the window that looked out over the side lawn. Peter crowed as Steve dropped him, carefully, onto the soft sofa. Taking a look around for something that might entertain a toddler, Steve spotted a box of tissues.

"Here," Steve said, carrying the box over to where Peter had righted himself on the sofa. "You can play with this."

Peter blinked at the box.

"Like this." Steve set the box on Peter's lap, and pulled one tissue out of the box, then another. The lightbulb went off over Peter's head, and he was soon yanking tissues free of the box with gleeful abandon.

Steve stayed close by to supervise. With the noise Peter was making and the distance from the kitchen, he could no longer hear the others' voices.

Steve Rogers was not, by nature, a delusional man. He knew that what he and Sharon were doing, their living arrangements, were a matter of convenience for both of them. Rent was so expensive, even as far south as they were in Brooklyn, and on their salaries paying for childcare was out of the question. Steve was lucky enough to be able to work from home when Sharon needed to go into the office, and she was home in the evenings and weekends when Steve had to go into the city for Foundation events. Between them, they had everything they needed to take care of Clint.

Steve didn't want any of that to change.

The volume from the kitchen was rising, Kim's sharp words swirling around whatever Sally was saying now. With a sudden snap, the words cut off. A moment later, Kim appeared in the living room door, carrying a cranky Clint.

"He wants you," Kim said, nearly tripping over herself to shove Clint into Steve's arms. "Here."

"Thanks," Steve said, trying to keep hold of a wiggly baby.

With a toss of the head, Kim whirled around and stormed back into the kitchen.

Clint grabbed handfuls of Steve's shirt. Steve held Clint tight, his heart aching at the knowledge that one day, he might only see his little boy on weekends and alternating holidays.

A happy shriek from the sofa pulled Steve's attention back to the present. Peter, having emptied the tissue box, was now trying to shove the tissues all back inside.

Steve breathed out, trying to center himself. It was going to be okay. He and Sharon had had a conversation about this before Clint was born. They both had agreed to live together to raise Clint to start, but that neither of them wanted to get married. They were friends, were great as roommates, but they didn't love each other. Getting married under those circumstances would have likely driven them to hate each other, and that was the last thing Clint needed, even more than his parents living apart.

No. It was better this way. Whatever happened between Steve and Sharon, however their living arrangements might one day change, their only priority was Clint. It didn't matter what people said or thought. They'd do what was best for Clint.

Clint wriggled, making familiar unhappy noises. "Of course," Steve said resignedly. "It's about time for a new diaper, isn't it?"

He gathered up Peter, who insisted on carrying his mangled box of tissues with him. Slowly, they made their way to the kitchen, Peter quite comfortable with Steve by now.

The conversation Steve walked in upon seemed forced, but Steve wasn't going to let that bother him. "I need to change Clint's diaper," he said. "Go on, Peter, go say hi to your Grandpa Abraham."

"Steven," said Abraham, concern etched on his face.

"I'll be back," Steve said with a fake smile. He didn't really want to linger, not now. "We gotta get the rest of dinner going, right?"

Before anyone could say anything else, Steve turned and headed upstairs.

Luckily, Clint's diaper was only wet, and Steve had him changed and dressed in a matter of minutes. Instead of going downstairs, Steve wandered down the hall to his bedroom, Clint gumming absently at his fist. "I need a minute," Steve told his son. "You okay hanging out with me for a bit?"

Clint seemed content to curl up in the curve of Steve's arm. Steve watched his son, torn between wonder and the ever-present panic that he was going to mess things up.

"I got a promise to make to you," Steve said after a few minutes. "Whatever happens with me and your mom, we're not going to let that hurt you, okay?"

Clint poked Steve's chin with one slimy finger.

"Okay." Steve stood and lifted Clint up to his shoulder. "Come on, it's time to make the doughnuts and if we let your Aunt Kim at them, she'll roll out the dough too thin."

Clint squeaked.

"I know," Steve commiserated as they went downstairs. "You're too young to eat the sufganiyot. It's hard, being a baby."

In the kitchen, Abraham was holding a pad of paper while Peter experimented with drawing. Sally was at the counter, chopping up salad greens with an air of irritation, while Kim slumped in a chair at the table.

Steve kicked at Kim's chair leg. "Come on, we gotta roll out the dough."

"Ugh," Kim groaned. "Can't I sit here and hold the baby?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said, hefting Clint down into Kim's arms. "Don't set any bad examples."

"Like what?" Kim asked facetiously. "Running with scissors? Crossing the street without looking both ways?"

"Yes." Steve went to wash his hands, then got the dough down from the top of the fridge. The only available work space was next to the sink where Sally was washing vegetables. Girding himself, Steve carried the flour container over with him. "Mind if I set up here?"

Sally moved her cutting board to the other side of the sink. "Go ahead."

Steve went to grab the cookie sheets. He only ever baked when he was at Abraham's house; in Brooklyn it was so much faster to walk to any number of stores than clean stuff off the counters and remember to buy all the ingredients. There was something different, though, when he was home in New Jersey. This was where he had learned to cook, and it felt right in a way he couldn't describe.

The kitchen fell into relative quiet, with Abraham talking to Peter as the boy scribbled, and Kim humming a tune as she bounced Clint on her arm. Sally was silent, which wasn't like her, but Steve put that down to the long flight.

It took hardly any time at all to punch down the dough, then tip it out on the floured counter and roll it out. Steve half-expected Sally to take over, like she usually on holiday meals, but she just kept at her slicing.

Steve had most of the doughnuts shaped and on the greased baking sheets for their second rise before Sally cleared her throat. "So," she said in a neutral tone. "Sharon couldn't make it down?"

Steve bit back his automatic reaction, to point out that her husband hadn't bothered to make the trip either. "She has some last-minute showings today, before Christmas."

The hesitation before Sally spoke again made Steve dread whatever was coming. "That's… I didn't know real estate agents did Sunday showings."

Steve pushed out dough with a bit more force than strictly necessary. "Junior real estate agents get stuck with the worst showing times," he said. "At least she has two days off at Christmas, that's what's important to her."

"She was okay going back to work so soon after she had Clint?" Sally asked, which was just unexpected enough that Steve looked over at her.

"She didn't have much of a choice if she wanted to keep her job," Steve said. "At least she could go back part time for the first two months, and I was on parental leave for a bit. We made it work."

"Dad says you're working from home now?"

Steve resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at Abraham. "For a little while, yeah, until Sharon and I can figure out what to do with Clint. You have Peter in daycare, right?"

They talked about Sally's dissatisfaction with the hospital's daycare space for a while, until the salad was made and the doughnuts set aside for their second rise. By this point, Peter was beginning to nod off at the table, so Sally carried him out of the kitchen for a nap.

"Here," Kim said, standing to hand Clint back to his father. "Back in a minute."

"Do you think she's going to go talk to Sally?" Steve asked as Kim disappeared.

"No," said Abraham. He stood slowly, grimacing as he straightened his back. "Thank you, Steven, for doing so much today."

"I'm happy to," Steve said. "Coming home, being with everyone…" He looked down at Clint, who was sucking on his thumb. "It's good to be here."

"It is," Abraham agreed. He patted Steve on the back. "Now, how long do we have until sunset?"

Steve glanced at the clock. "Two hours or so."

"Then Kimberly and I will begin setting up all of the things, and you will make more coffee, yes?"

"Of course." Steve bent down to give Abraham a quick hug. "Thanks, Dad."

"For what do you thank me?" Abraham asked, gently slapping Steve's cheek. "It is I who is the most lucky man."

Clint chortled in agreement.

Abraham went off in search of Kim, and Steve turned to make coffee one-handed. Clint was awake and alert, which gave Steve high hopes that he would sleep early. Peter might be up until midnight, with his west coast sleep patterns, but at least one baby would be in bed early that night.

Sally wandered back into the kitchen as Steve was pouring hot water into the French press. "Peter out okay?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, he's fine." Sally slumped at the table. "I never know when he's going to actually fall asleep. He was a nightmare on the plane."

"Does he sleep through the night?" Steve set the kettle back on the stove.

"When he's sick," Sally said. She rubbed her eyes. "How's Clint? Is he up all night?"

"Um." Steve stirred the grounds into the water. "Not really. We put him to bed at seven and he usually wakes up once around midnight when we're going to bed, for another bottle."

"Oh." Sally sat back. "Lucky you."

Steve looked at the coffee, not sure what he should do. If he hadn't promised Abraham that he wouldn't hide, he'd have been out of the room by now.

He didn't _understand_ Sally.

"Steve."

Steve turned around. Sally was at his elbow, an expression of…. something, on her face.

"I'm sorry."

Flummoxed, Steve raised his eyebrows. He couldn't remember the last time Sally apologized to him about anything.

"I'm in a foul mood," she said, rubbing her eyes again. "And I'm being an ass."

"It's…" Steve trailed off, because it wasn't fine. "Are you okay?" he said instead.

"I don't know." Sally reached out to touch Clint's cheek. The baby turned into her hand by instinct. "Flying with a toddler was worse than I expected. And I never travel well." She took a deep breath. "And you're making this all look so easy."

"It's not," Steve protested. "It's not easy, I mean, Sharon and I are making this all up as we go along. Luckily Clint got his mother's temperament, she's pretty calm about everything and he's super chill."

"Luckily," Sally agreed. She held her hands out, questioning, and Steve handed over Clint. The baby made grabby hands at Sally's collar. She bounced him gently. "Peter's the opposite of calm."

"He's got a lot of energy."

"I know." Sally rubbed Clint's back. "I wish I knew where he got it all. I'd need about ten cups of coffee just to have half that much energy."

Steve put the top of the French press into place. "I don't know about ten cups, but I could help you out with one?" he suggested.

"Sure." Sally carried Clint over to the table while Steve fetched cups and cream and sugar. "Are you going to have any?"

"No, I'm fine."

Once he was seated, Steve took Clint back while Sally fixed herself another cup of coffee. The house was quiet, with the radio playing quietly, and the occasional bang from the basement where Abraham and Kim were hunting out the Hanukkah boxes. It felt like _home_.

Sally took a fortifying gulp of her coffee. "Oh, that's good," she said. "I can never get the coffee to taste like this back in Oregon. It never tastes like Dad's does."

"Yeah, it's better here," Steve agreed.

"A lot of things are." Sally stared into the depths of her mug. "I'm always glad to come home."

Steve helped Clint stand, little baby feet braced against Steve's thighs. "Me too," Steve agreed as Clint bounced up and down in delight. "Me too."

Sally and Steve sat together in peace, or at least a temporary truce, until Abraham and Kim emerged from the basement with their arms full of boxes.

"How come I'm doing all the heavy lifting and you're all just sitting around?" Kim demanded, dumping her box on the table.

"Hey, I been working all day," Steve protested.

Abraham sighed. "The box, it is not heavy," he reminded his daughter. He placed his box carefully beside Kim's. "Now, you and Sally can help me put up these decorations, and Steve will get ready to fry the sufganiyot, and Clint will help me to supervise."

Sally and Kim both groaned. "Dad, don't tell me we're going to put up those silly decorations again," Kim complained. "It's all kids' stuff we made in school."

Abraham gave her a mock-stern expression. "Kimberly Erskine," he said. "In this house, we put up all the decorations, no matter how old they are."

"Fine," Kim grumbled, but she began digging into the boxes with alacrity.

Steve hauled himself to his feet. "Who's going to hold Clint?"

"I will," said Abraham. "But first, one more cup of coffee."

Steve looked down at his son, who was watching Kim and Sally haul decorations out of the boxes. "What do you think?" he asked quietly. "Looks fun, doesn't it?"

Clint let out a shriek of glee.

* * *

By the time Peter woke up from his nap, the decorations were laid out in the kitchen, the doughnuts were fried and resting on cooling racks, and Sally and Kim were arguing with a surprisingly lack of vehemence about when they should start on the latkes.

Abraham suggested that Sally take Peter for a walk in the neighbourhood to tire out his legs, and that Kim should go with him. Steve returned to the living room to put Clint down for a quick nap of his own, and Abraham took a break in his office to read his Sunday newspaper.

The women returned half an hour before sunset, which set off a flurry of activity in the house. Kim was set to the task of finishing the sufganiyot with jam, while Steve and Sally got their respective children clean and, in Peter's case, bathed.

Soon enough, everyone was gathered in the kitchen. Steve held Clint, freshly dressed in a blue and white checked onesie Sharon had insisted on packing for him. Sally had Peter standing on a chair, her arm wrapped around his shoulder to prevent any sudden break-aways. Kim stood beside Abraham, her arm linked with his.

"Now is the time," Abraham said. "Is everybody ready?" After the murmurs of agreement, Abraham turned to cast an eye on Peter. "Now, little one, you do not remember this from last year," he said. "And you will probably not remember next year either, but this is how it goes."

Abraham lit the little shamash candle, then turned to the Hanukkah menorah in its place in the kitchen window, overlooking the street. He touched the flame to the first candle, then placed the shamash candle in its holder.

Clint babbled. Steve kissed the top of his head, glad beyond measure that Clint was here, and he was safe, and happy, and growing.

In a quiet voice, Abraham recited the three blessings over the candles. The house was warm and smelled like coffee and spices and _home_ , and Steve didn't think he had ever been happier in his life.

Abraham turned to his children. With Kim still holding his arm, he reached out his hands to Steve and Sally. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bright with a hint of unshed tears.

"My family," he said. "We may live far apart, but we come back together, because we are family." He squeezed Sally and Steve's hands, while Kim put her head on her father's shoulder. "We are family, and we are still here."

They stood for a movement, before Peter decided he had had enough of waiting and tried to jump off the chair.

"Peter!" Sally exclaimed, while Abraham chuckled.

"Come," Abraham said, blinking. "We sit, and then we will eat."

"That lasagne smells amazing," Kim said, sliding into her chair. "I wonder if you could deep fry a lasagne."

"You can deep fry anything," Steve pointed out. He let Abraham take Clint, and sat beside Sally.

"So next year you're going to make a deep-fried lasagne?" Sally asked skeptically as she wrestled Peter into the makeshift high-chair.

"Yes," said Steve, and Kim laughed at him.

At the head of the table, Abraham sat, Clint in his arms, and looked out at his family. Steve caught his eye and smiled.

They were family, and they were here.

_a happy ending_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, and this is an aside, I know the CIA has an actual parental leave plan but when you’re undercover and pretending to work for a real estate firm that would not, you got to plan things accordingly. Eh. Maybe one day I'll write that modern-era spy caper with Sharon and Peggy Carter.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://mhalachai.tumblr.com/)!


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